Originally published in Harper's New Monthly Magazine (Harper and Brothers) vol.19 #109 (Jun 1859).
"Katharine," said my father, one morning at breakfast, lifting his eyes from an open letter in his hand—"Katharine, your cousin Ashton will be here to-day. He promises to stay a fortnight with us." I took the letter, and, passing out to where the deep vines of the veranda shaded me from the morning sun, sat down to think and read it over.
I was an only child, and motherless. I had never seen Ashton—my only cousin, but strangely my fancy had fixed upon him as a friend, a brother. Through long and lonely hours of my lonely life I had thought of him, gleaning up what little I could hear about him, fashioning from it an ideal character, and imagining our meeting in a thousand different ways. And now he was coming! Would he be like my ideal? Would he like me? Should I gain a friend, or lose a hope?
We lived in a secluded valley, far from society. The world without might strive and cry, might agonize and rejoice, might love and hate, no murmur of its life reached Hemlock Hollow. My father studied and thought, gloomy and self-involved—a stern cold man, rejoicing in loneliness as a tired man in rest. For me, I longed for change, for life. I wearied of the stagnation of perfect quiet. I dreamed wild dreams that have been ever dreamed and never realized; and sickened of the summer's sunshine, and the winter's snows, beating against the bars of my prison, although it was a fair and beautiful one.
For nature had been kind to this home of mine. It was a little dell whose gentle slopes were crowned with hemlocks, gaunt and grand; while deeper down the graceful birch and elm, with their branches interwoven with flowery trailers, made bowers innumerable, paved with wild flowers, and vocal with the song of birds. In the midst nestled the low cottage with its vine-covered veranda, at each end an acacia-tree, whose white flowers every summer breeze showered through the casement. Beautiful looked the valley in the light of the July morning, beautiful in roses steeped in dew and the murmuring of fragrant branches. A little stream that sprang a tiny fountain from the hill-side ran through it, babbling and dancing in the sunshine.
The evening came, and with it the expected visitor. Many mornings and evenings came and went, bringing new life and happiness to me. Bringing pleasant companionship, tasted for the first time, and bearing with them all my discontent. Days in which I first learned what it was to have a friend; for my ideal was more than realized. I was not disappointed in Ashton Sherrard.
"Katy, I am an orphan as well as you. But doubly so, for my father too is dead. I am alone in the world; there is not one in it that cares more for me than for a dozen others."
My cousin's eyes were deep and dark, and calm as the summer sea; but now their depths were stirred with a passionate trouble, and his lip trembled as with pain. His sorrowful words touched my heart. With an irresistible impulse of consolation I laid my hand upon his.
"Ashton," I said, "I never had a brother; let me be your sister."
Ashton turned quickly, and looked searchingly into my eyes. Taking my hand fondly in both of his, he said,
"My sister; and will you choose to be my sister, Katy? Bear in mind all that implies; what loving trust in me, and care of me; what patience with all my faults; what never-failing interest in my concerns. Remember, you must grieve when I grieve, and be glad when I am glad. Have you counted well the cost? I will yet let you retract."
"I have no wish to retract," I said. "I am ready for the duties of the office. It is better to have somebody to grieve for than nobody to joy for. "
I had not thought I had power to give him so much pleasure. His cheek flushed and his eyes brightened as he answered,
"Then the bargain is struck, little sister; and ill befall the first who breaks it. I will be a very Shylock with you. You shall keep to your bond in every jot and tittle, or I will cut the forfeiture from you if I can, you little sprite, but I am afraid there is not a pound of flesh on you. You would fail me there, I think."
The warm wind of the mid-summer night blew wild and strong, shaking the green boughs, and bearing with it the perfume of flowers. Sweeping over hill and dale it came, from the far distance, exulting in its freedom—wailing to the pines, whispering to the poplars, stooping gently to kiss the sleeping flowers, and then hurrying away to gambol among the giant branches of the hemlock. This evening, too, we had been walking in the woods, and we paused, standing together in the garden to look back where the great trees rocked and moaned, and to watch the heavy clouds flying across the sky.
"'The voice of the Lord is powerful; the voice of the Lord is full of majesty; the voice of the Lord breaketh the cedars; yea, the Lord breaketh the cedars of Lebanon.' How grand it is—how wild, how terrible!" said Ashton. "Katy, what thoughts do the wind bring to you?"
"It tells me of other times," I said, "when I have breasted its wild current; it brings me back the words I spoke when I called to it to bear me away with it—away, in its mystery and strength—when it seemed to whisper to me of the life for which I panted. It is a memory to me."
"Oh! not a memory to me," he said, "but a hope—a glorious hope. I would go thus through the world girded with strength; with the power that the wind has to freshen and purify. I would sweep away old wrongs and prejudices as the wind scatters the withered leaves. I would stir the thoughts of men as it stirs the branches of the trees."
There was fervor in his voice, and his eyes glowed and his nostrils dilated as he spoke. He stood looking forward as if he would have read the future. For a while I stood silent, looking at his face. At length he spoke again.
"An awful thing it is to rouse this monster from its sleep. Yet some have done it; some have done deeds and spoken words that will re-echo through all time; ay, and through all eternity."
"Ashton," I whispered, "what would you do?"
"What? Ah! I can not tell—I can not tell, Katy. But I stand waiting. The world calls for strong spirits; and whatever comes to my hand, that will I do."
A fear for him entered my heart as he spoke.
"My brother," I said, "go not forth in your own strength. The wind is in the hand of the Lord."
"I will go forth in the strength that God has given me, with that portion of Himself that He has placed within me. And," he added, throwing off the seriousness of his tone, as he looked down at me; "and with you, Katy—with your white, cool hands to smooth my brow when it is ruffled in the strife. What would you be in the world that lies before us, Katy?"
"Oh! not the wind, Ashton," I said; "rather one ray of sunshine. I would then spend my day in gladdening one spot of earth, and brightening the rain-drops that fell on it; and when evening came I would fade slowly away, leaving behind me regret for my departure."
Ashton's visit came to an end; and when he was going he asked me to walk with him a little way. The clouds sailed calmly over the blue sky, and the birds sang around us as we stood on the hill and looked down on the valley at our feet.
Ashton took both my hands in his, and looked into my face.
"Dearest Katy," he said, "will you miss me when I am gone? Will there be any less sunshine here for my absence?"
I answered, quietly, that I should miss him. But when I had spoken the words my heart rose within me, and I could not forbear telling him all that he had been to me.
"Ashton," I said, "you have been the sunlight of my life—you have been its hope and its fulfillment. I had not lived until you came and brought life with you, my brother. My heart will be with you wherever you go."
Still he held my hands in his, and their pressure tightened as I spoke.
"Katy," he said, "do not call me brother. I will not let you be my sister. I give up all claim to your sisterly affection."
I looked up quickly to his face. There was no want of love there, but love full and free, the strength of his great heart. My eyes fell before his, and my heart trembled at the treasure, so inexhaustible in its richness, that had opened before me.
"No," he said, "not my sister. You are dearer to me than ever sister was to brother; and, Katy, you must love me better than if I was your brother."
I could not answer him; but he knew that his love was more to me than life, and the proud consciousness that it was mine made my heart swell and my eyes overflow with tears of joy.
I will not describe our parting. I watched his lessening figure until nearly out of sight; I saw him turn and wave his hand to me as a last farewell; and when I could see him no longer I turned and went home.
He was gone, and I should not see him again for a whole year—a long, weary year. Yet I was very happy. It was a year to think of him and love him in, and to pray for him in, and invoke, every hour, God's blessing on his head. I will pass over this year, and take up my story again when it is finished.
The day of Ashton's return had come. A year and some months had passed away, and it was autumn. I wandered about the house as restless as hope and anxiety could make me. At last I dressed myself with more than usual care, and looked for a while at the little brown face that wanted all the elements of beauty, banded my hair, as I had always worn it, close back from my face, and wandered down the path he should come by. Hiding myself where I had a good view of the road, I waited his coming. I heard footsteps, and, starting up, I saw him coming. Oh! my heart's heart! my whole frame grew faint with excess of joy. At first he did not see me, and came along with a quick and earnest step, and head bent down; and as he came nearer I noticed that his face wore a pale and troubled look. Suddenly he looked up and saw me, and his eyes flashed on me like lightning.
"Katy!"
"Ashton!"
In a moment he was by my side, with my hands in his, pressing them against his lips, and murmuring low words of affection.
It was some time before we left that nook among the trees. As we walked together up the pathway I asked Ashton what had made him look so strange and pale when I first saw him.
"You had your lips pressed tight together," I said, "and you looked so defiant, I felt half-afraid of you."
"I feel nothing but joy now, Katy," he answered, caressing the hand he had drawn through his arm. "But then have you not sometimes imagined a danger from which you shrank, as if it had been real and palpable? That was my fancy just then. Yes," he continued, "was it not wrong, when I was so near holding these little hands in mine; so near looking into that face with its clear brow and loving lips?"
I laughed, and professed to despise his flatteries. But praise from him was the sweetest music to my ears. I secretly rejoiced in the knowledge that he thought me beautiful, though I knew it was only a delusion. And talking thus we reached the house.
Long happy days followed. Together we revisited all our old haunts in the forest and by the stream. The last year faded away as if it had never been, and our two lives closed again where they had been separated. But in my highest happiness I was sometimes chilled and saddened by an undefined shadow that hung over Ashton. Often when he had been silent for some time, I would look up into his face, and see there the same sad conscious look it had worn on the day of his arrival, and though the sound of my voice always chased it away it troubled me much.
The evening came that was to be the last of Ashton's stay; and when the sunset began to burn in the west, we stood on the veranda watching the redoubled splendor it cast upon the gorgeous woods. Every shade of scarlet and yellow, brown and green, was lighted up with a new glory, and here and there a belt of evergreens stood out dark and frowning in the mellow light, a contrast to the splendor behind, making it seem more beautiful still.
I stood near Ashton and looked up into his face.
"Katy," he said, "your love is dearer to me than all the world beside; dearer far than life; dearer than any thing but the integrity of my soul. But there is something I must tell you, if I would not forfeit that integrity; something which I fear will make you wish to take your love from me." He spoke very calmly, but the hands that held mine were shaking, and he was deadly pale. He paused a few moments and then continued: "Do not judge me rashly, Katy; I am what you would call an unbeliever. I do not believe what you have been taught most to reverence."
A sudden rush of blood to my heart left me without the power of speaking, and I felt that I would soon be unable to stand. I disengaged my hands and sat down on a fallen tree.
"Katy, will you not speak to me," said Ashton, impetuously; "Katy, what are creeds but the offspring of men's minds? Has not every age seen a new religion? Think, darling! shall we be separated for such a shadow?"
I looked into his eyes, and saw the agony of love that welled from their depths upon me, and my heart rose up wildly and refused to believe that he, my heart's idol, was an unbeliever.
"Ashton," I said, "it is impossible: I will not believe it. Do not tell me that I may no longer lean on you. It will kill me, Ashton: I can not bear it."
"Oh, Katy, do not reproach me," he answered; "I would rather die than bring sorrow to you. If you knew how hard it has been for me to tell you this—if you knew the agony that is wringing my heart—you would pity me."
He covered his face with his hands, and I heard a groan, low and heart-stricken, burst from his breast.
"Now God pity us both," I said; "and chiefly you, for you need it most. But oh! Ashton, I have to choose between duty and happiness, and the struggle is hard—almost harder than I can bear."
"Do not send me from you," he said, turning upon me a face so changed with the struggle of his mind that I would not have recognized him. "You can not. I could not bear it, nor could you. And I am not really an unbeliever. I believe in the divine essence all around us: the majesty of God awes us in the lightning; the stars are the mildness of his eyes; he smiles up to us from the flowers round our feet; the glory of his presence shines up from the departing sun; and, Katy, he shines into our hearts in that love that never can be quenched—dearest, I know you love me too well to think it ever can be."
This, and more too, he said, with his eyes fixed on mine in that gaze which I had never resisted. He pleaded his love for me; he told me that I had promised that nothing should divide us; he said that if I failed him he would be alone in the world, with no one to love him or that he could love; and with my heart too frozen for tears, I listened to his words, with my mind striving vainly to be firm, like one that is beaten against by the waves of the sea. He spoke with impetuous force, and I felt that he was bearing me with him. As I cast about for power to do right, the words of. the promise came to my mind. "In all thy ways acknowledge Him, and He shall direct thy paths." And I called for strength to Him who is a very present help. It came to me, and I rose up and stood before him.
"Ashton," I said, "it is giving up my life to give you up. Do not speak to me. My heart pleads as strongly as your words. Oh! Ashton, I see nothing but darkness all around me. I can not tell you to pray. You can not pray to an idea; and when will cease the restless tossing on that dark and troubled sea, into which, rudderless, you have launched your precious boat? You are afraid I will wish to take my love from you. Oh! Ashton, that is impossible. I would not if I could. Never will I cease to pray that God have mercy on you; but until then we must part, Ashton—it can not be otherwise."
"I thought I knew how you would receive this," said Ashton; "but now I feel that I had hope. Good-by, Katy. I have thought of life with you by my side—a protecting angel to keep my soul from taint. I have thought of guarding you through all the world, and of bearing you close to my heart through every danger. I must learn life anew, Katy. Good-by!"
Unable to speak, I gave him my hand. It was pressed in both of his, and kissed passionately, and he was gone. Gone!—my all of life and love!—gone forever!
Alone—alone! I repeated the word over and over to myself when I stood in my room. So stunned was I that I could feel nothing more. I walked aimlessly up and down, catching a glimpse, as I passed the mirror, of a wild, white face that did not seem my own. I tossed back my hair from my face, and laid my damp, cold hands upon my burning forehead, and smiled with a sort of curiosity at all that I could bear alone; and then I sat down and tried to think. Where was he now? Hurrying through the woods, torn by the grief that I had inflicted. I! how dared I, unworthy as I was, cast away, as if it had been a worthless thing, the precious love which had honored me above all others. I clasped my hands upon my brow, and cried aloud with such a passion of tears as seemed to tear my life away. Shuddering, I looked forward into life, and saw its dreary barren waste lengthen itself out before me. My heart fainted within me, and I prayed for death. Then my thoughts went back to that first day when I had watched for him in the wood; and I remembered his pale, defiant face, and the fancy that he said had caused it. Now I could interpret his dream, and understand the fearful struggle that had shaken his soul; and he had to bear all with his own strength. Poor Ashton! How much more to be pitied than I, wandering out, as he was about to do, into the world without any love or hope to cheer him; for I knew him too well to think he would soon cease to care for me. I sank down on my bed sobbing and weeping, and calling to God for help to him so noble, yet so deluded, until the heavy sleep of grief rendered me for a time insensible.
Again from the sad story of my life I lift the vail: As near the close of a dim and dreary day, a watery gleam illumines all the landscape, and shows the falling rain, the heavy mist, and the drenched and beaten flowers. Three years have passed since Ashton went away—years such as leave the form bowed, and take the light of youth from the eyes; years in which were pressed upon my shrinking spirit all
"The hope, and the fear, and the sorrow;
All the aching of heart, the restless, unsatisfied longing;
All the dull, deep pain, and constant anguish of patience."
And now the end was coming.
On a summer evening I sat in a room in a little wayside inn far away from my old home. The sunlight, streaming through the window, flushed with a roseate glow every object in the little room; and the branches outside, stirred by faint breezes, cast their waving shadows on the wall. On the couch beside which I sat lay the sleeping form of a sick man. Calm and still he lay as a sleeping infant—he that I loved so deeply—with the pleasant sunlight falling on his face, and the evening stillness gathering in the room: but as I looked on his flushed cheek, his parched lip, and the rich golden curls that lay matted on his hot brow, I thought of the past weeks that I had passed by his bedside, when I had watched him tossing to and fro in the delirium of fever, and listened to his wild ravings; I thought of the many times he had called me to him with passionate entreaties; and when I took his burning hands in mine, and bent over him, how his deep, blue, glittering eyes would wander vacantly over my face, killing me with their wild unconsciousness. Truly I had gone through deep waters—the floods went over my soul.
But amidst all there was joy at my heart, and hope, that seemed to others nothing but madness. For on my heart lay a letter from Ashton, the first I had received from him since our parting. It made me happy, although it brought the news of his illness, for it told me that he had become a Christian.
These were its contents:
"Come to me, Katy, I am ill, very ill; I was on my way to you when this sickness came, but now, dear, you must come to me. If it should be God's will that I should never see your face again in this world, thank Him for one thing, dearest—your prayers for me have been answered; we shall meet in heaven, if not on earth."
This was brought to me three weeks ago by a hasty messenger, and half an hour after I had read it I was on my way to him, accompanied by my father. It was a long journey, and when I reached its end he was delirious. And as yet he had not recognized me.
Again I took the letter out and read it by the failing light. Although its words were so familiar that I could have repeated them every one, I was never weary of reading the blessed assurance they conveyed to me; and I felt that the God who had been so merciful would yet continue his goodness.
Still I sat there by the bedside, and still Ashton slept on, until twilight fell and shadows began to creep into the room. The crimson had died away from the western sky, and one large, fair star glittered above, like a brilliant eye above a faintly-flushing cheek. At length I rose and went to the window, and kneeling down by it, and leaning my head upon my hands, I looked out upon the happy, quiet earth; and prayer came into my heart, filling it with love, and my eyes with tears, and welling up to my lips in these words: "Oh, Thou who dost not willingly afflict, and who pitiest us even as a father pitieth his children, take not the light of my life from me; let me yet be happy in this world, if it be Thy will!"
Deeper fell the shadows around me, and the stars shone out more brightly above. I closed the window softly, and lighted the lamp upon the table, and, sitting down, waited hopefully for Ashton's waking.
Hush! was that my name, that low, faint whisper? Yes; there it comes again.
"Katy."
In a moment I was by his side.
"Katy, love, how I have longed for you!"
This music met my ear; the dear eyes looked into mine with recognition and love; the weak, wasted hands clasped mine; a load of grief seemed lifted from my heart, and I wept tears of thankfulness and joy. I was about to call my father, who had retired, that he might see what I believed such a happy change, but Ashton would not let me.
"Stay with me a little while," he said; "I want to look into your face, it is so long since I have seen it. And I have much to say to you. My poor little flower, how wasted and wan you look! and it was I that brought all this sorrow upon you! it was I that took all your brightness and bloom away!"
"Hush!" I answered; "they will all come back now when you are well. You will come back with us to Hemlock Hollow, and we will be very happy. We will never part again, Ashton."
But Ashton's face did not echo back the hope and joy that I felt met him in mine. There was neither joy nor sorrow in it; nothing but a perfect calm, with a shade of pity in the deep eyes as they met mine.
"Yes, dear, we must part," he said, solemnly; "but the decision does not rest with either of us now. A higher power parts us—a power that you will find strength to submit to, darling. The separation will be short, we shall soon meet again; and now do not go from me or call any one. Let me die with your true arms round me; your loving lips against mine."
His words fell upon my heart like a doom of death, shattering all my bright hopes.
"Oh, Ashton, do not speak those dreadful words," I cried out in terror; "they are not true, I will not believe it; you must not go and leave me in the world alone. The fever is gone now, and you will get well; I could not bear to lose you now, when I had begun to hope that all my sorrow was over. Oh, Ashton, I will not let you die!"
"'They shall hunger no more, neither thirst any more; neither shall the sun light on them, nor any heat. For the Lamb which is in the midst of the throne shall feed them, and shall lead them unto living fountains of waters: and God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes.' Katy, will you let me go to be among them—to live in the light of God for evermore?"
I listened to Ashton as he spoke these words, my heart torn with fierce agony.
"I am greatly changed since we parted, Katy. Now I know that whatever God orders for us must be best. He is more kind, and wise, and loving than I can even imagine him to be. What seems to us hard only seems so because we do not know. Dear love, can you not trust in him?
"Since I lost you, Katy," Ashton went on, "I have been very unhappy; but about six months ago it seemed as if I could no longer bear my life. All my hopes and plans failed. My aims were not those of any other; they were wild and visionary, without foundation or end. SoI gave up them and the world, and drew back into myself. Then a wild, intense longing for you rose in my mind, driving out every other thought. Many a time I have been about to set out to see you once again, if but for a moment; but each time the knowledge of the suffering it would cause you kept me back. Often I have dreamed that I felt the touch of your hand upon my forehead, or your cheek against mine, and waking to find it only a delusion, I have risen, and wandered out into the woods, and lain all night upon the ground, in my dark agony, calling upon your name, with a wild, despairing hope that you would in some way hear and answer me. At last, for no other reason than because it had felt the touch of your hands, I began to read your little Bible that you gave me long ago, soon after we first met. It was long after that ere peace came; but it came at last, after a dark and dreadful season; and now, Katy—"
His white lips were parted, his brow was damp, his eyes fixed themselves upon mine; I wound my arms round him, holding him against me, and calling his name in words of passionate grief; then our lips met in one last, long kiss, and so his spirit fled.
Some time after—I do not know how long—my father came and found us so, I seeming as cold and lifeless as he who leaned against me. They took me away, back to Hemlock Hollow, where the fever laid its hand upon me, and for weeks my life was despaired of. But it was God's will that I should recover. Surely he knows best, and I have striven to be content.
It is not many years since, yet already my hair begins to be silvered with gray, and strangers that see me by chance fancy me an old woman. My father is dead, and I am quite alone in the old house. Often on summer nights, among the hemlocks, a breath not human seems to touch my cheek, and a loving presence seems to close around me, with heavenly whispers of consolation. I know the time will not be long now until I shall see him in that heavenly city, with the light of God upon his brow, and shall walk in peace beside him where the weary are at rest.